


Truce

by SpookySad



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Oneshot, Sad, Suicide, Triggers galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookySad/pseuds/SpookySad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the future, anyone can apply for assisted suicide. Josh works helping people end their lives in a peaceful, painless way, and he's okay with it. But it hurts so much when a brown eyed boy comes asking for his assistance. </p>
<p>This whole fic is about suicide. Please be safe. Stay alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

> This is to get rid of some writer's block I'm experiencing. I was triggered writing it and you might get triggered reading it. Know yourself. Be safe.

“Dun?”

Through the thumping beat of the music booming through his headphones, Josh barely made out the tone of someone saying his name. Turning his head, he saw that standing in the doorway of the employee lounge was Ashley, the only coworker he could stand. He’d remove an earbud for her—but _only_ her. 

“Yeah?”

“There’s a guy in room three.” 

“I’ve got five more minutes. Can he wait?” It seemed like his lunch hour always got cut short. He never had a lunch to eat, but sometimes in his line of work a guy just needed a minute to sit and breathe and recover. Undisturbed.

“He’s got all the time in the world,” Ashley said. “I’m heading back to the front desk.” 

Josh gave a half-hearted salute but didn’t bother replying. He tucked his headphone back into place and stared at the clock on the wall. He had time for one more song, and he didn’t plan on having to _think_ until that song was over. 

The hallway outside of the employee lounge was quiet with six doors on the opposite wall marked with numbers. A sign overhead read: QUIET: SUICIDE ASSISTANCE IN PROGRESS. Doors three and four were both marked with red panels above the knob to show that someone was inside waiting. Room two had a black panel. Josh took the key off on his lanyard and opened door three. 

There was part of his job that fascinated him. Opening the door and never knowing who could be on the other side was an odd feeling. Sometimes, he tried to predict what kind of person might be there. Were they old with regrets? Young with burdens? Male or female or identifying somewhere in between? Were they talkers, or were they criers, or were they quiet and dignified? 

No matter what he suspected or predicted, Josh was always surprised. On the other side of the door was a male his own age. He was sitting in the chair that reminded Josh of what he had to sit in at the dentist’s office. He was thin, with a serious expression, hair dark and short and altogether non-descript. He had warm brown eyes that were tired and rimmed in red. Young and burdened. Josh could sympathize.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Josh. Do you have your application?”

The male in the chair had a slip of paper resting on his lap, twisted and wrinkled with how much he had been folding and unfolding it. He held it out with a trembling hand and Josh took it, scanning over the information. 

**Tyler. 21. SSRI, Citalopram. Condition Stable.**

Attached was a doctor’s note that described Tyler’s history with dissociative identity disorder but explained that it had been managed with medication and therapy for nearly three years without a relapse. It gave explicit approval for what was about to take place.

“Hey Tyler. Do you know how this works?” Josh took a seat on the stool beside the chair, placing the application on the little tray that rested beside them.

“You’re going to kill me.” 

“We’re going to talk for a while. If you still want my assistance, I’ve got three separate chemicals I’m going to give you. The first will make you unconscious. The next will stop your breathing. The last will stop your heart.” 

“Does it hurt?” Tyler asked. 

“Not at all.” 

Tyler took a deep breath. He nodded. “Alright. What do we talk about?”

“It’s up to you,” Josh explained. “Talking isn’t mandatory, I guess. It’s just that not everyone knows they have the option. Sometimes, people like to talk before I help them. They like to tell me about their lives and why they’re here.” 

“Are you interested in that?” He asked. Tyler had a very quiet voice, tentative but resolute. “I mean, do you really care?”

“Honestly?” Josh asked. “You’d be surprised. When I have someone in the chair, I’m the last person to ever see them alive. They give me pieces of them. It’s sacred—and I hear some amazing stories.” 

“I—I’d like that, I think,” Tyler said. “No one knows that I’m here. My parents, I mean. My family. They don’t know that I’ve decided to do this. They don’t even really know _why_ …I mean, I’ve never told anyone exactly what happened, and—” He trailed off, twisting his hands in his lap. “—I don’t want to be forgotten.” 

“I’ve never forgotten a single person,” Josh said, honestly. “You can tell me whatever you want. Legally, I’m not allowed to repeat anything you say.” 

Tyler smiled wanly. “Well, it wouldn’t matter if you did, would it? I’ll be dead soon.” 

“If you decide you need my help,” Josh reminded him. “You’re free to leave at any time.” 

He took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll tell you about the treehouse then.” 

Tyler hesitated, reaching up to press a fist against his mouth and inhaling deeply. Josh gave him time, curiously watching from the stool across the room. This was his favorite and least favorite part of his job. Favorite because he liked people, liked learning about people, and the promise of impending death made lips loosen. Sometimes, right in front of him, a person would work through the issues that had brought them to this very chair. They would part with a handshake, and Josh would have one less name to write in his book that night. 

But it could also be his least favorite part. More often than not, the men and women in his chair unburdened themselves and then continued on with their plans. Those nights, Josh would struggle to fall asleep with stories and names of near perfect strangers drifting through his head. 

“I have multiple personality disorder,” Tyler started. “It began when I was a child. There were some—things that happened to me, things that I’m over and don’t really want to talk about, but—but the doctors say that those kinds of things happening to a kid my age can cause the mind to do things it normally wouldn’t do to try to cope. 

“It wasn’t my family’s fault. I had a really great family. Two younger brothers and a younger sister. My parents are awesome. When they found out what had been happening to me, they did all the right things. We all thought that I was better, but the person responsible—they didn’t get in trouble like they should have. I started to have problems with anxiety. I was always afraid of who I might run into or who might come _looking_ for me.

“I was fourteen when I began to notice the gaps in time. That was when—when the guy who hurt me got out of jail. He moved out of state, but it didn’t help. I was terrified, and all of the sudden, weird things started happening to me. I’d do things and not remember doing them. I had really unhealthy coping methods.” Tyler lifted one of his sleeves and Josh saw the faded purple lines there: old but deep. 

“Marks started appearing on me that I didn’t put there. My siblings—they started acting afraid of me, and I couldn’t understand why. I’d lose hours at a time, hours that were just _gone_ with no memory of what happened. I was too afraid to tell my family. I had just stopped having to go to therapy, I didn’t want to have to go back. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. I thought that if whatever was happening was only hurting me, then it couldn’t be so bad.

“But then came the treehouse.” Tyler’s hand drifted up to cover his mouth again, inhaling deeply, like he was _smelling_ his hand for something. Josh watched quietly, engrossed in the story. “We lived on the outskirts of our town with a little house nestled right up against the woods. Back in the woods was a treehouse, very old, that a family years before us had built. The planks were weak and dangerous. We weren’t supposed to go there.”

Tyler’s face hardened, eyes narrowing and lips thinning with _hate_. The expression was so different from his timid countenance and voice that Josh’s heart started to pound. “We weren’t supposed to go there, and I knew that. But Blurryface must have _made_ them go there.” 

“Blurryface?” Josh asked. 

“My—other personality. I don’t know what happened, but I know it’s his fault. I remember playing outside with my younger siblings that Sunday. I was seventeen and trying to teach my younger brothers to play basketball. The ball went into the trees, and I stood staring and then…” Tyler waved a hand. “The time disappeared.”

“When I came to, the treehouse was on fire. Even the little rope ladder that led up. My shirt was singed, but _my hands smelled like gasoline._ I know it was my fault. It was Blurry’s fault. I thought for a moment that maybe I had just set the treehouse on fire, maybe it was empty—but then I heard the screams, and—” Tyler cut himself off. “It had just been in my head, the gasoline. There was no gas. It was just old, dry wood—but how did it catch on fire in the first place? I put the pieces together even if no one else did. Dad’s matches were gone. I found the matchbook in my pocket later that night. It was me. I killed all my siblings.

“The police didn’t know how to explain the fire, but it looked like whatever had happened, I’d suffered it too. I had burns on my face and fingers. It looked like I had tried to save them, but I know better. Those burns were from when I came to, from when I did try to climb up that _stupid_ rope—but before that, there hadn’t been any burns.

“I came clean to my parents about my DID, and once I started taking the medicine and going to therapy again, it was like Blurry had disappeared. No more marks. No more gaps in time. He’d come and he’d gone, but he took _everything_. I can’t even go to their graves—I don’t deserve to go to their graves when I’m the one who put them there.” Tyler had started to cry large, slow tears, his voice hitching and cracking. The sound made Josh’s chest clench tight. 

“I’m not a doctor,” Josh said. “I don’t know anything about multiple personality disorder, but it seems like you were a victim just like your siblings were, only in a different way. You seem like a very nice guy. I don’t think it was your fault.” 

Tyler was taking deep, trembling breaths, wiping at the wetness on his cheeks. “No offense, but you _aren’t_ a doctor and you _don’t_ really know me.” 

“I know. No offense taken.”

“What about you?” Tyler asked. “I mean, you have to be pretty—pretty fricking messed up to work here. No offense.” 

“Again—no offense taken. I guess I’m pretty messed up, yeah.” Josh reached up to run his knuckles over the stubble blooming on his jaw, liking the pleasant sting the rough hairs gave him. Nobody had ever asked about _him_ before. 

“Tell me your story. Please.” 

Josh was at a loss. For a long moment, he just gaped, unsure what to say. “Truth be told, there’s nothing wrong with me.” 

Tyler looked puzzled, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. Josh struggled not to smile. The other boy’s face was such an open book, so pleasant compared to the masks Josh seemed to run into outside of these rooms and his job. Someone genuine was a rarity. A pleasant one. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that I don’t really have a story. I have three siblings too. They’re all still alive, and most of them are married or seeing someone. My parents are great. I was never abused. I’ve never even really been sick. Nothing bad has ever really happened to me. I’m just—sad anyway. I guess I’ve always felt like I don’t deserve to be sad, but thinking that doesn’t really make me feel any better.

“This job isn’t easy. There’s a lot of turnover, but I’ve almost been here the longest. I like helping people. One day, it might be me in the chair. If that time comes, then I hope that I have someone there who will talk to me and remember me. I don’t know if that makes any sense—I don’t usually talk about myself.” 

Tyler seemed horrified. “Don’t ever end up in the chair, Josh. You seem really great. I wish that I’d gotten to know you, before all of this. Instead of this.” 

“You could,” Josh said without even thinking. The words lingered in the air between them for a moment, but the silence wasn’t awkward necessarily. It was only tense. “Nothing’s official yet. We can both walk out of here. We could get coffee. I like coffee.” 

Tyler smiled sadly. “That sounds great. It really does, but I can’t have friends anymore. I can’t enjoy people or meet people or make friends or have _significant others_ or anything. I’ve killed people. It’s not safe.” Tyler seemed to hesitate, picking at the hem of one of his sleeves, when he spoke next, his voice was scratching. “And I don’t really know how well we’d get along. I mean, meeting one person—what does that change?”

“It could change everything,” Josh said though he didn’t really know if he even believed it. He wanted to. 

“Maybe. Maybe it really could—but maybe it _couldn’t_ … I’d rather die thinking that maybe things could have been better than to live and know that they won’t ever change. Not to mention, did you miss the part where I said I _killed people?_ ” 

“Do you know how many people I’ve helped die?” Josh asked. “It’s a lot more than three.” 

“Josh.”

“Six hundred and twelve.” 

“Please,” Tyler sounded on the verge of tears again. “Please don’t try to talk me out of this. I have to do this.” 

Josh’s mouth clamped shut so suddenly that his teeth clacked together and made a violent noise in the quiet of the room. Suddenly, he felt ashamed. “I’m so sorry, Tyler. That was really inconsiderate of me. This is completely your decision, and I know it’s not an easy one. I’ve—I’ve never said those kinds of things before to someone who needed my help. I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Tyler said, giving a watery smile. “You’re just, like, really persuasive dude.” 

_Not persuasive enough,_ Josh thought to himself, forcing himself to smile back. 

Tyler took a deep breath. “Thank you for listening. I’ve never told those things to anyone before. I—I think I’m ready now.” 

“Alright,” Josh said even though it wasn’t alright at all. “It will be just a moment.” 

He went about preparing the chemicals. In the corner of the plain room rested a cabinet filled with syringes. He tugged on a pair of plastic gloves and set the syringes out: one, two, three. His heart was in his throat, but he couldn’t say why. 

“Will you roll up your sleeve for me?” Josh asked. He folded up Tyler’s application and set it aside out of the way, moving the syringes onto the tray by the chair. Tyler rolled up his sleeve and Josh saw that he had tattoos: odd black symbols that looked nice against Tyler’s tanned skin but held no meaning for Josh. 

Tyler let out a long breath when he was finished. 

“Is there anything else, Tyler?”

He shakes his head, lips pressed together tight. “I’m a little afraid though. Will you hold my hand?”

“I’m not supposed to,” Josh said. “But I will if you’d like. This is going to be painless, I promise you.” He picked up the first syringe. “Ready when you say.” 

Tyler nodded furiously. Josh sought a vein, pressed the needle in, and depressed the plunger. Tyler hissed at the sting but relaxed immediately. 

“Thirty seconds, Tyler,” Josh murmured. He sat down the syringe, took off one of the gloves (against protocol) and clasped hands with Tyler. The boy’s grip was already weak, eyes becoming foggy. 

“I’ll see you, Josh,” Tyler mumbled, though his name came out sounding more like _Jish_. “We’ll get coffee, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Josh said. He squeezed Tyler’s hand tight, and then the other boy’s eyes were closed. He was unconscious, giving deep and slow breaths, lips parted gently. For a moment, Josh did nothing. It was a normal dose. If Josh waited long enough, Tyler would wake up, drowsy but alive. 

But that wasn’t what Tyler wanted. Josh reached for the second syringe. When Tyler’s breaths stuttered and slowed and stopped, he reached for the third. The boy in the chair’s heart stopped almost immediately. People don’t look peaceful when they die, Josh thought to himself. They just look gone. 

Josh sat heavily on his stool, afraid he might collapse if he didn’t. He reached for Tyler’s hand again and held it. It was still warm, but as time went on, it cooled and Tyler paled. That was when Josh stood to leave, removing the red panel and switching it out for the black one that signified a body waiting to be removed.

After washing his hands, Josh went back into the employee lounge. There was a coffee pot on the counter that made the room smell fragrant, but Josh knew from personal experience that it was decaf and not worth the spit in his mouth. Maybe if he’d played his cards a little differently, he’d be getting coffee right now with Tyler. 

The thought had tears biting at the backs of his eyes, a burning pain that he didn’t experience often. He pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until the urge stopped. Then, he reached for his wallet and removed the worn application that rested there. He’d asked for the application before he’d even started working there. Most nights were spent staring at it or thinking of it. It was already filled out.

**Josh. 22. No medications. No illnesses. No doctor’s approval required.**

Josh went to the front desk where applications were processed. Ashley was there packing up, preparing to go leave, when Josh placed his application on the counter. He slid it towards her and she stopped, lips tightening. She turned her computer back on and reached for the slip of paper. 

“Are you sure, Josh?”

“Tomorrow,” Josh said. “Or as soon as possible.” 

“What’s the rush?” She asked. 

“Coffee date,” Josh said, ignoring her odd expression.

That night in his book, nearly filled to the back, he wrote Tyler Joseph in tiny, looping handwriting. For good measure, he wrote his own name as the last one and then tore free the rest of the blank pages. 

When he fell asleep, he dreamed of trees and coffee and warm hands growing cool together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Coda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10381812) by [neonroadkill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonroadkill/pseuds/neonroadkill)




End file.
